


Happy Accidents

by Coshledak



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Schmoop, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coshledak/pseuds/Coshledak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidents can cause a lot of problems, and sometimes they can cause a lot of good. People tend to fail in realizing the potential good of a proper accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on xmen_firstkink: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=9795877#t9795877
> 
>   
> **I.**   
> 

Some things happen completely by accident—like Hank creating a yellow chemical burst that caused the entire North wing to smell for three days, or Raven's cooking. Raven's cooking is certainly nothing but one repeated accident. But, bless her, she tries, and she's improving, so that's saying something. Accidents can cause a lot of problems, and sometimes they can cause a lot of good. People tend to fail in realizing the potential good of a proper accident.

A 'proper' accident is not what has Erik projecting an ridiculously childish amount of rage when he bursts into the study for their nightly chess game. No, it's one of the other variety. Charles flinches, momentarily blocking the words he was reading, and resists the powerful urge to lift his head. Erik has always projected his negative emotions stronger than any others, which is somewhat amusing because, even when he's angry, he can often seem very cool and collected. Charles firmly believes that he could have gone on fooling anyone if he hadn't met a telepath. If Erik hadn't met him.

But they have met (another accident, of sorts), and Charles is sure that he's the only one in the entire house who would risk going near Erik right now. Just as well, he's sure that he's the only one Erik would trust himself around.

“Bad evening, my friend?” He asks even though Erik hates giving answers to those sorts of things. He's a firm believer in denial and choking things down until they're tolerable. Charles doesn't much care for it, really, but who is he to force his coping mechanisms on other people?

“What tipped you off?” Erik snarls, and that's precisely the reason that Charles is the only one who will be near him now. Charles, unlike any of the children, doesn't take it personally. Erik's anger doesn't have anything to do with him, it's just a product of circumstance.

Charles sighs, though, because he still doesn't like being snapped at. “I'll mix you something to drink. Why don't you sit down?”

He stands up and turns to the liquor cart, bringing his own mostly-depleted glass of scotch with him for the ride. He refreshes his glass first, out of ease, and then sets about mixing Erik's usual martini. He'd never known how to mix a good martini before meeting Erik; then, on one of their good nights, Erik had taught him. His first attempts were less than impressive (not terrible, because there were only so many ways one could make an alcoholic drink terrible when they weren't really _experimenting_ to begin with), but tolerable enough. Erik let him practice over the nights that followed until, soon, he'd had it almost mastered.

He put all his concerted effort into it tonight, he wants it to be the very best so far.

He's utterly satisfied with it when he's finished, for all the good it does him, because when he turns around he sees that Erik has dropped to take a seat beside the chair he'd just been in. He's sitting with his legs crossed, head tilted back against the armrest, and glaring quite intently at the ceiling. Charles can see him fidgeting with his blasted coin between the spread of his thighs.

He quirks a brow. “That wasn't quite what I was expecting.”

Erik rolls his head to look at him. The edge of his mouth quirks up, but it looks forced compared to the lingering annoyance in his eyes. “I don't have the mind for chess.”

Those seven words don't explain, in any capacity, why that meant that he had to take a seat next to Charles' chair. The only other time Charles had heard those words had been one night when Erik stopped by to let him know he was going to bed. It had been disappointing then—this wasn't.

“I don't see,” he says, stepping closer and passing the glass to Erik. He has to carefully twist his fingertips along the rim to make sure he doesn't drop any, but he manages without spilling a bit of it. “how that has found you sitting on the floor next to my chair.”

He moves around the back of the chair—to avoid stepping over Erik or squeezing between him and the table—and takes a seat again. Erik's shoulder is slightly in the way, so he angles himself into the corner of the chair and crosses his legs. He takes a sip of his drink, balancing the book on his thigh.

“Well,” Erik begins, and it's like he's working it out as he says it. “There's no point in sitting in my chair if we aren't playing chess, and I've no problem sitting on the floor. Unlike some people I know.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Forgive me if I'm not going to sacrifice the use of my back tomorrow for the sake of appeasing you.”

Erik laughs in reply. It's a quiet sound, something that implies that it's rare without making a big deal out of it. Charles feels some of his own tension ebb away because Erik isn't the sort to laugh—not genuinely—when he's angry about something. He can't fake it well enough, and he doesn't care to try.

“Go back to your book, professor,” he mocks. Charles notes that his voice is still sharp, he hasn't _really_ relaxed much at all. “Or am I upsetting your atmosphere by sitting here?”

“No,” Charles says. He flips open to the page he'd left off on and holds it open with his thumb and pinky. His hand falls to Erik's head more of its own accord than his own conscious effort. “You can stay wherever you're comfortable, my friend, you know that.”

He feels a prickle of something from Erik's mind—at the words or the contact—and discreetly glances towards him out of the edge of his vision. Erik isn't looking at him, he seems more fixed on something in front of him, which makes Charles far more bold than he would have been otherwise. Bold enough to start smoothing his fingers over the short strands of hair, lightly patting out any strays that might have gotten frazzled in their tendency towards disarray when Erik was angry.

It isn't an uncommon gesture, really, he'd done it for Raven a lot when they were children and she'd had a bad dream or Cain had upset her. In the grand scheme of things, the only thing that's different is that it's _Erik_ , and Erik is significantly different than his younger sister.

Except, it seems, in this.

Erik tenses at first, which gives Charles pause, but he doesn't say or do anything, which is always a good sign with him. He isn't the type to let something happen if he strongly disapproves of it, at least not without argument, and he seems perfectly fine with this. After a few seconds of debate, Charles lifts his hand and starts again. He hadn't intended to, he was going to just let his hand fall back to his lap, but he swears Erik relaxed a bit under the touch. It was only marginal, and maybe it was only as much as he'd tensed up to begin with, but it was there.

Erik's shoulders are still a determined line by the second time, and he still hasn't argued with him. Charles entertains the thought of pulling his hand away, getting concrete evidence of Erik's desire for it by seeing if he'd ask, but Erik wouldn't. He's used to denying himself, it's second nature, and this falls right into that category. So, instead, he extends his reach just a bit further until he gets the—ah, there it is—murmur of _nicecomfortableokaygood_ from Erik's mind.

He doesn't want to pry into direct thoughts so he backs off again, turning his attention back to his book and lifts his hand for a second time. He keeps tabs on Erik's feelings as he does it, a fringe on the words he reads, and experiments with the touches. Just running his hand down his hair was nice; he liked the back of his head in particular; he didn't like fingers sifting through his hair but he didn't mind the careful scrape of Charles', admittedly quite short, nails against his scalp.

It seems like something that should be fundamentally intimate, pushing the boundaries of their friendship, but the word 'friendship' is so nebulous and complicated between them now that he doesn't know of any explicit boundaries. He'd done this for Raven and it wasn't too forward, yes she was his sister where Erik was not, but even that means very little. Raven is not his sister by blood, and that has always meant very little to him in the grand scheme of things, so why should this?

He cares for Erik, deeply, and he's helping him to relax. No point in overthinking it. _Erik certainly isn't_ , he smiles.

No, Erik's thoughts are now in an easy balance, similar to the way they would be when they played chess. It isn't until Charles finishes his chapter and realizes that Erik's head has moved to rest on his knee that he tries extending his mind to encompass Erik's once more.

 _Simplewarmcomfortable_ Erik says to him, without saying anything at all. His breathing is slow and steady, his shoulders relaxed. At some point he moved the drained martini glass to the edge of the table; he'd stopped fiddling with his coin. Charles recognizes it: the tranquil stream worked out from previously rampant stress; the happy accident of finding peace.


End file.
